


i've been waiting

by slytherintbh



Series: dredged [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Healing, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kissing, M/M, Past Abuse, Post-Seine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 13:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12482448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherintbh/pseuds/slytherintbh
Summary: It takes two years, three months, three days. Javert cannot abide the thought of hurting the one good thing left in his life. Still - he takes the hand that is offered. Eventually.





	i've been waiting

**Author's Note:**

> the end of this little thing

“Why not?”

Javert sighs. Valjean is looking at him with that damned saintly gaze, the one that he wears whenever Javert kisses his hand or says foolish things about how wonderful Valjean is. Which is not infrequent. You cannot be saved by a saint and not adore them. What Valjean wants, however –

“You know why not,” Javert snaps. Regret sits foul at the back of his mouth. “Unless you can make it so the past two years were sunshine and perfume, which I might believe of you, this cannot happen. I am sorry, Jean.”

Javert turns away, busying his hands with the empty plates left on the table.

“I have forgiven you.”

Javert sighs.

“It is not a matter of forgiveness.”

A hand comes to rest on Javert’s shoulder and he almost shivers at the warmth of it. “The Lord forgives all. I have forgiven all. It was a slight on my person, surely it is my place to decide when the penance is paid. Please, Javert. You were the one who…”

“I don’t know _why_ I did that.” One memory filters through the sludge, that of a tight embrace while huddled on the floor, a clumsy brush of lips in the name of – desperation, maybe. Javert hadn’t thought about it then and he still doesn’t understand it now. Conflicted, he turns and reads the lines of Valjean’s face. Where hunger had withered him there are still marks of suffering, but he has filled back out into the figure that Javert knows so well.

Slender fingers trace the scar over Valjean’s right eye. _Javert_ put that there. It had been nauseating enough to realise at the time, and it sickens him further that the damage is permanent. Nobody but he would notice the tiny sliver of pink.

Then there are the huge gashes along Valjean’s back, and if Javert thought on _that_ , he would no doubt find that some were his fault. That is intolerable and he leaves it alone.

“No, Valjean.” Ignoring the blush that has settled on Valjean’s cheeks, Javert turns back to his task, wilful servant once more. “You know as well as I that this… endeavour is a foolish one. I have caused you too much pain.”

“You were sick –“

“Do _not_ excuse it,” Javert snarls, and curses inwardly. He is trying to stop that habit. “Do not excuse it,” he repeats. “If I wanted to make light, then I would do so myself. Surely taking responsibility for my previous actions is what this whole charade is about? Living and paying penance? Although my penance is rather limited within this house.”

The house he still forgets the address of. Data slips through his head like water. He faults the Seine for that.

“You give me company,” Valjean offers weakly.

“Poor company,” Javert grumbles.

“Poor by your reckoning. I rather like it.”

“There’s no accounting for your taste.” The deadpan drawl makes Valjean chuckle.

“You sound much like yourself, these days.” There is a clatter – Javert turns and finds Valjean searching in the cupboards for something. “The wry inspector is more evident than ever.”

_Inspector_. The word makes Javert flinch, although he doesn’t let Valjean see. He would be lying if he were to say he doesn’t miss it. He does. Achingly. It is a little difficult to return when you exist under prolonged house arrest, already getting too old for the strain of the job, thought long since passed by Gisquet and Chabouillet and all his subordinates.

Javert pauses. He has not thought of Chabouillet in a long time. Knowing his division, it’s likely that his patron was the first one to hear of Inspector Javert’s dip into the river, information gleaned from some knowledgeable observer. Who had seen him that night? Obviously nobody who cared enough to try and stop his descent, yet someone who still offered a report to the police after the fact. There was a glory in that. _I saw the inspector jump in. Guess the old bastard gave up._ Respect, it would earn you respect with the Parisian underworld.

A dusty sense of justice rises in Javert’s gut. Pride. Or – indignation. It is like an old memory, and he leans against the counter top, suddenly dizzy.

“Javert? Are you alright?”

Turning, Javert finds Valjean approaching with a look of concern, basket of fruit sitting on the otherwise empty table. “I am fine,” he says, more gruffly than he would like. “Remembered something.”

“Oh?” Valjean sounds pleased. “What is that, then?”

“My pride.” Javert tilts his head as though he is clearing it of water. “Policeman’s instinct. Something like that.”

“You are healing,” Valjean whispers, tracing a hand up Javert’s jaw. It immediately labours his breathing.

“Jean,” he croaks. This is the worst part of living in this house. Besides the constant memories of fury and internal collapse, there is this. Does he love Valjean for saving his life? Does he love Valjean as a person? Certainly that, but – does he love Valjean because he sees nobody else?

Belatedly, he realises Valjean is kissing him. For a moment he considers giving in (for a moment, just a moment, he does) and then dispels the thought. He pulls away, shaking his head.

“No.”

“Javert. Are you not interested or will you not allow yourself –“

It is well that Javert is the taller, because it makes it easier to hold Valjean’s face. “Here,” Javert points to the scar, “is where I threw a jug at your head. Here,” his fingers slip down the bone to his cheek, “is where you were bruised for three weeks.” Fingertips travel and point accusingly at points along Valjean’s body. “This is the burn from your stumbling into the hearth. This is where I pushed you into the bed and you winced as you walked for so long I forget when I did it.”

There are many more besides. Finally, Javert rests his hand on Valjean’s heart. “I refuse to harm this,” he says, and his voice breaks.

“You already do,” Valjean asserts. “With your denial. Allow me to forgive.”

“It is not merely your forgiveness which matters.” Javert moves away, fiddling with his cuffs. “I must forgive myself. _God_ must forgive me. Until I know that it will never happen again, our relations cannot go further. I will not abuse you for the sake of your lonely heart.”

He wants to kiss him. He is growing older, his hair is greying, it should be the autumn of their love and he cannot even push them into spring.

“I am 66 years of age.” Valjean sounds angry, which is pleasantly novel. “You coddle me.”

“You have never looked older than 50.” Besides the _incident_ last year, of course, and eating has taken those added years back from him. “And I coddle you because you are naïve. Hm. Or, you are a Christian. I cannot tell the difference.”

“ _You_ are a Christian, Javert.”

“I do not try to emulate sainthood.” Javert grows tired. Great emotion wearies him with unique ability. “Please, Jean, I need to sleep. Maybe after a few more months.”

This answer makes Valjean frown unattractively, but he nods. They walk together and split paths at their respective bedrooms. While he is thankful that he is free from a guard in the night, Javert misses the presence of another person in his room, that sure and steady sentinel.

“Sleep well,” he says, resting against his door.

Valjean hesitates. He walks forward and presses a kiss to Javert’s cheek. “And you, friend.”

*

It has been three months.

It is the September of 1834.

Javert remains house-bound, paranoia insisting that someone shall see him and recognise him. Why that is a bad thing, he doesn’t quite know. Perhaps it is the thought of facing his old superiors after so long. In truth, his suicide attempt embarrasses him. Valjean tries to talk to him about it, and it only ever results in awkward silence. _Let it rest_ , he begs wordlessly. Cosette and Marius see him only when they visit the house, which is rare in and of itself, and neither of them know about the events following the barricade.

Cosette knows about Javert’s… behaviours. He insisted upon telling her. The violence of her wrath was not one to be underestimated, but she has mostly forgiven him of his transgression.

Naturally, Valjean is beginning to grow impatient.

Never speaking of it outright, he often alludes to their conversation in June, hinting that the months had passed and he had waited and _surely_ they could give it a try. Whatever ‘it’ is. Javert painfully, desperately wants to say yes. From heart to head he would if he could.

“Not tonight,” he mutters.

Valjean sighs. They are sitting in front of the fire, reading. Well, Valjean is reading, and Javert is pretending to, although his book is plainly upside down. Instead he is probing his mind for memories of Montreuil. That time of his life has been conspicuously vague for the past two years – he fancies that he must have hit his head at some point in his ‘fall’. All that is coming back is fragments of the episode with Fantine, and the way that Monsieur Madeleine always looked at him from his desk, expression wary and curious.

Much like Valjean is looking at him now, only there is hope, this time.

“You are being unfair,” Javert says. His heart trembles in his chest. “This is cruelty. You know that I want… this.”

“Then take,” Valjean whispers. It is unusual that he sounds so impassioned. “I am willing.”

“I am guilty.” Turning his book the right way up, Javert dispels the spectre of Madeleine and burrows into the fine print that his eyes struggle to parse.

Suddenly, the book is gone. Valjean is standing over him with it in one large palm, stare unyielding, the other hand crushing the wood of the chair above Javert’s shoulder. He leans down. Javert cannot think or feel or begin to comprehend what is happening as the book disappears behind Valjean with a _thump_ and two hands splay across his jaw, drawing him upwards into an awkward half-standing position. They are not yet united. Hot breath tickles his lips and he licks them nervously.

It is all wrong. Again, the kiss is brief and awkward. Javert doesn’t try to pull away from Valjean’s strength and instead ducks his head. “ _Thief_ ,” he mutters.

Valjean looks as though he has been slapped. “I…” He settles Javert back down into his chair and covers his mouth, hiding the guilty party. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll leave you be. I’m sorry.”

The door slams shut.

Tired and nearly indifferent, Javert goes to collect the book from where it has landed, pages bent against the floor. He smooths them out. With careful precision, he turns to the first page, settles the print close to his face, and reads.

*

Sitting on the end of the bed, Javert thinks.

He is partially doing it to annoy Valjean. Much as he cannot be reprimanded for merely sitting and musing, it upsets Valjean in some way to see him staring off into space, only barely present in the moment. Three days have slipped by without them talking. Or, they talk, in bites and regretful whispers. Feeling buzzes on Javert’s mouth. Next time, if there _is_ a next time, it must be on his own terms.

Quite of his own accord, Javert had visited Cosette. It was the morning after Valjean had kissed him, and if anyone knew how to deal with it, it would be her. Their conversation was short and enlightening. At first she seemed uncomfortable at the thought of her father in love – or, in love with a man, maybe – but she had pushed her discomfort aside and agreed with Javert.

“He will forgive anyone of anything,” she said, twirling her hair around her finger, resting one hand thoughtfully over her stomach. The baby must have been kicking. “I don’t think you need to hold back, Monsieur Javert, but just make sure he is not hurrying. Sometimes one should wait and understand the waiting. Papa does not quite know how.”

This bemused Javert at the time and it still does now.

Valjean is astonishingly patient. Twenty years on the run and one has to be. Wait for the right time. Wait for company that you can trust. Wait to be free. He is still waiting to be free, although it is unlikely that anyone will recognise him now. His is a crime long since dead. The battle between the law and the saintly fugitive rests in the past. Maybe Valjean’s patience is the same. Maybe he is allowing himself this one vice.

In any case, Javert will not go out alone again. Valjean’s tearful expression when Javert returned from visiting Cosette said far too much about where his destination could have been, for all it was the middle of the day.

There is a knock at the door. “Javert?”

It opens without waiting for an answer. Valjean looks lonely. His curls are in even greater disarray than usual. Two apples are sitting in one open palm. “The first of the harvest,” he announces. “Look, are they not fine?”

They are beautiful. The light from the window and from a redundant candle gleams from their red skins. Light gleams from Valjean’s dark eyes and from the white locks of his hair.

It is the September of 1834. It has been two years and three months and three days since Javert was saved from the river. It has been three months and three days since Valjean first tried to approach him. It has been three days since he stole a kiss and was rebranded a thief.

“A harvest,” Javert says.

“From – the garden.” Valjean smiles nervously, suddenly tense.

“We don’t have a garden.”

“I do,” Valjean says, and stalls when Javert stands.

He feels much like his old self again, in that motion. Valjean is quailing under his gaze, and he is towering in height, feeling his old greatcoat around him despite wearing nothing but his usual shirt and trousers. When he stalks forward he is a predator once more. Valjean is reduced to the shivering, trapped prey.

“Swear something.” Javert’s tone is imperious to the extreme.

“What would you have me swear?”

“Swear to me that you will not regret this,” Javert says, looking Valjean straight in the eyes. “If I do anything, if I hurt you in any way – you must also swear that you will leave. Or that you will make me leave. Do you understand? If you truly care about me as much as it seems, then you will look after yourself.” Javert would rather die than bring harm to Jean Valjean. He always seems to manage it anyway with his biting words and thoughtlessness, but if he knows that Valjean will stand up for himself, well, then he will try to bring Valjean all the joy he can. With as little of the pain as is possible.

“I swear,” Valjean whispers. “I swear, although I hope it will not prove necessary.”

Satisfied, Javert takes one of the apples from Valjean’s grasp. He bites into it and nods. “They are good,” he says, and drops it to the floor. Valjean makes no complaint. He is too busy with the hands on his back and the mouth pressed to his own, kissing as though it were the first time and, in a way, it is. A kiss given is realer than a kiss stolen.

*

Over the days, and weeks, and months, Javert tries to work out why he feels the way he does.

He loves Jean. He does. He loves him like he’s loved nothing before, not even his work. There is every chance that it is simply a side effect of being trapped in a house with the man for over two years, and it is perhaps not so healthy when he thinks of it like that, but he cannot help the way his heart is.

When they kiss, it is like nothing else, it thrills him more than the chase ever could. The arrests of his heyday are distant memories. The Patron Minette are nothing, his capture of Valjean after Arras is an amusement, his glorious sacrifice at the barricades a petty thing. All the insults and tantrums of that first year seem to melt away into Valjean’s mouth. Words always melt when Jean is around. Javert has so much to say and never the breath to say them.

“I love you,” he says one night, curled into Valjean’s chest. A rough hand is stroking his hair. He is still not enough like his old self to find it an insult to his pride. He hopes he never will, comparisons to dogs be damned.

“I love you too,” Valjean replies, sounding terribly pleased. He is quiet. “You know, I don’t suppose I expected this.”

“You cannot be more surprised than I,” Javert deadpans. “So much for the irreproachable officer of the law.”

“You are not that man anymore.” The hand shifts from Javert’s hair to behind his ear, where it rubs soothing whorls of warmth into the skin. Javert stifles a satisfied sigh.

“I am not,” he agrees. “Thank goodness.”

To return to such a state – it is impossible. He has spent far too long changing to return to who he once was. Those first months, in which his mind ran riot and his hands tried to crush themselves with anxiety… those alone would have been enough. The gradual growth into a better man is incomplete yet well underway. But he will never be whole again, he does not think, not after so many plotted suicide attempts.

Valjean shifts Javert so that they are facing one another, and kisses him.

Maybe this is why he loves him. The motions are so easy. They both know exactly how the other man unlocks, their bodies slot together in the right ways. With every kiss he learns more. Soon they shall be inseparable, which would upset Marius, who is polite yet obviously discomfited by their relationship.

Maybe he loves him because Valjean saved his life. He would think so, only that would have some strange implications for Valjean’s son in law, and it doesn’t bear thinking about.

“Jean,” he says, because he can.

“Javert,” comes the sigh in response.

“Why do you love me?” Javert asks, when they are apart enough that they can breathe.

Valjean takes a moment to think on it. “I don’t know,” he replies, without cruelty. “I simply know that I do. Is that enough?”

It will have to be. It is exactly how Javert feels. He nods.

If they continue as they are now, they shall fall asleep like this, or stumble up to Valjean’s bedroom and fall asleep there. One of them will have a nightmare. God has traded them their nightly rest for days spent in peace. Valjean dreams of Toulon and he cries out under the imagined lash. Javert pretends that he is not one of the men who is responsible for those dreams and Valjean pretends with him, letting himself be soothed.

Javert’s nightmares are far more varied in content. He sees the faces of the poor that he failed to help. He dreams, agonisingly, of the way his body seemed to shatter upon hitting the surface of the river, lungs expelling air and life in one swift blow. He dreams of Valjean and sending the man sprawling with a blow, sick satisfaction insufficient to tell whether or not this is before or after the barricades.

They are only dreams. All is well.

“Cosette is bringing the baby tomorrow,” Valjean mutters sleepily. “Not for long, though.”

“Hmph. A winter baby. If she weren’t so wealthy…”

“I don’t want to think about it.” Nestling his head into the crook of Javert’s neck, Valjean sighs. “The baby is born, they are all healthy, we need no fear.”

A thought comes to Javert, and he blinks. “Only thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me?”

“If not for you, Euphrasie would have likely frozen to death under the care of that blasted Thenardier. Pontmercy would have died at the barricade. I would be at the bottom of the Seine, or else buried in some unmarked grave for suicides.” Javert is struck by it. “You have saved the life of everyone you love. You are responsible for every joy you receive.”

There is a long pause.

“I suppose,” Valjean says lamely.

“Ridiculous man,” Javert says fondly, burying his face into Valjean’s curls. He listens as Valjean’s breathing smooths out into the breath of sleep. There is a remarkable calm. Javert does not think he can remember the last time he raised his voice.

Comforted, he breathes in Valjean. He falls asleep. 

 


End file.
